


Pride Hard Won

by transmaniandevil



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ADHD, Agender Character, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Lavellan, Bloodplay, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dom The Iron Bull (Dragon Age), Dom/sub, F/F, Fade Sex, Gender neutral Inquisitor, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hate to Love, Heavy BDSM, Intentional Ambiguity, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Loneliness, M/M, Mage Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Masochism, Masochist Inquisitor, Masochist Lavellan, Mental Health Issues, Mind Games, Minor The Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Multi, Non-Sexual Kink, Nonbinary Character, Other, Platonic BDSM, Racism, Sadistic Solas, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Social Justice, Solavellan, Solavellan Hell, Trans Character, Trans Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Trans Lavellan (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras is a Good Friend, dominant solas, rotating pronouns for the Inquisitor, solasmance, submissive Inquisitor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23543857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transmaniandevil/pseuds/transmaniandevil
Summary: This is part shameless self-insert because the Inquisitor is a true tabula rasa, part Solavellan Hell. Verrevan Lavellan (Revan for short, for whom I will be using randomly rotating pronouns she/him/they, if it's difficult to follow I'm sorry, but deal with it; also pronoun usage is sometimes outright intended to be ambiguous) is a mage and fiercely proud of their Dalish heritage. They also have big submissive and/or masochist energy and are learning to grapple with who they are and what they want as an individual versus who the Inquisition expects them to be and the monumental tasks before them, and trying to acclimatize to human society at the same time. LGBTQ themes will be woven throughout. Ableism will be discussed at length, as will issues of Anti-Elvhen racism, and Mageophobia (that's a word right?). If you think reverse oppression (ie: reverse racism) is real, this really isn't for you.Explores kink in a non-sexual context and sex itself as an aspect of submissionAbout the author: Transmasculine, Latinx, Queer, Mentally Ill Millennial. I speak only for myself and my own experience.
Relationships: Inquisitor & Varric Tethras, Inquisitor/Iron Bull, Iron Bull/Lavellan, Josephine Montilyet/Sera, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Mage Inquisitor/Solas
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. The Dawn Will Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relevant Elvhen:
> 
> Verrevan - Inspired from the Elvhen "vera" meaning "to take (away)" and "revas" meaning "freedom". Either means that their freedom was taken away, or they're taking freedom away from some situation. Intended to be ambiguous.
> 
> Fen’Harel ma halam - Elvhen curse, Dread wolf kill you (also seen it as Dread Wolf take you)
> 
> Ara Mor'Fenedhis - Exclamation, Elvhen curse, Fenedhis is often used as a versatile stand-in for exclamations like "Fuck", "God Damn", etc. "Ara Mor'Fenedhis" literally translates to "My giant wolf cock", in context more than likely used as a dismissive exclamation akin to "[word], my ass!" or its literal infinite variants.

The breach was sealed today, a plan come to fruition against all odds. Tonight had been and was yet again a time for celebration, if only for a little while. It was in times such as these that Verrevan Lavellan’s crushing loneliness almost overwhelmed them. And being either unable or unwilling to reign in and hide their emotions (they weren’t sure which was the case), whether in the brightest or ugliest times, Revan had to slip away from the revelry lest they draw unwanted attention. They knew it was only a matter of time before one of the real leaders of the inquisition, probably Cassandra, would come out into the snow searching and—almost goading, almost understanding, not quite helpful—would remind the Herald that this is all in their honor, that she understands the uneasiness or the reluctance to interact with so much inescapable gravitas by the virtue of their position. The Herald does have an image to maintain, after all, beyond a miraculous “resurrection”. This is merely a reprieve, the longest road lies yet ahead. And all that pressure.

All the same, maybe Cassandra would have the wherewithal to send Lelliana after the Herald in her stead. Lelliana, who delights in revelry almost as much as she delights in murder, would at least be able to grasp how enviable it can be to have the freedom to move unnoticed and ignored. Cassandra had never before had that privilege. Maybe even Cullen would come find them here. Cullen was more of a stoic than either of the other leaders, maybe from being a Templar, maybe from being a human man. It made no difference to Lavellan; the shems as a general group were all as baffling as they were irritating. Such a great many things the shems did made so little sense—even now. Even so, Lavellan knew Cullen would be glad for the opportunity to slip away even just to get a breath of fresh air. Shems and their awkward propriety. So many confusing social obligations. The Fereldans would always exclaim how the Orlesians were so much more complicated, but at least the Orlesians’ customs, while undoubtedly more complex, and deadly, had the intense study alongside the rules to match. While of course a lot went unspoken, at least there were opportunities to learn outside of the sink or swim that everything else seemed to be. The Fereldan shems didn’t write their own rules, didn’t even fully understand how they worked, how saying one thing was rude, but saying it slightly differently was a compliment, but saying it a different way than that meant something else entirely. Fereldans just innately followed these confusing paths such that even if they didn’t understand them, they knew where they were—and expected everyone else to perform to their standards, too. Lavellan was often lost in that labyrinth. And being considered such an important figure all of a sudden, this was frustrating for everyone involved. Lavellan most of the time could get some amount of leniency for this sort of sociopolitical incompetence by reason that they were Dalish. But even so, that excuse only extended so far. Truth be told, even among the Dalish they were a bit of an odd halla out. Not that the shems needed to know that. And not that it made a difference.

The person who did eventually approach them during their brooding, however, moving with silent purpose across the snow, was Solas. Lavellan recognized the gait as one they themself too often were forced to use. For Solas it was more natural; his intensity was focused thus. Revan’s own intensity was more chaotic and they walked that way sometimes because for one, she understood that the ability to appear to belong in any given environment relied almost entirely on giving off the impression that they were supposed to be there. Most importantly, as an elf it was an important survival skill. While Revan had broken his own carefully measured stride as soon as out of direct line of sight of Haven, Solas’s confidence was not a façade. Solas wasn’t pretending to belong anywhere. They almost expected Solas to say something as well to try to bring him back to the throngs of people the Herald still had a responsibility to, no matter how unwanted that responsibility was. Solas rather, lit the nearby torch with a sudden rush of crackling green, and stood next to Lavellan and maintained a sort of comfortable silence, both their breaths mingling in the cold night air. The loneliness was still present, however it was slightly tempered by the veilfire illuminating them both at the edge of camp.

“Being such an important figure to them must be daunting.” Solas observed at last, with a slight twinkle of amusement in his eyes, voice low and gentle “But you should know, if just to ease your mind, your fame has made you beyond petty reproach… almost.” Lavellan nodded mutely. It was a lesson learned over time in theory, but not quite mastered in practice. Confidence is key; is king. The thing about overbearing social rules, same as any other medium with overbearing rules—like writing for instance… is that once you got good enough (or faked it, as the case may be), you could ignore the rules on purpose, “for effect”. Uncharismatic or otherwise socially destitute people who flouted the rules were uncouth and embarrassing. Important or charismatic or otherwise socially powerful people were eccentric, trend-setters, fearless, bold. Remarkable. Lavellan, by supposed-virtue of being the Herald of Andraste, did undeniably find herself brought with dizzying speed and urgency from bottom of the shem social hierarchy to the upper echelons almost instantaneously. Before the shems saw their face, though, they just saw another uppity elf – another knife-ear – until they realized who it was they were looking at. Then it was all hushed reverent whispers and bright awed eyes. It was disgusting. The sudden attitude shift lurched so palpably that every time it made Lavellan want to vomit. But it always seemed like he was the only one in the interactions who even noticed. “You’re one of the good ones”, the shems would say, or seem to say, or intonate, and it made Lavellan bristle with acrid contempt. Now instead of “suspicious” or “antisocial”, Lavellan was labeled as almost hallowedly aloof, nobly shouldering some almighty, unfathomable burden, a recalcitrant martyr and indomitable leader. It was a tone change only, the most basic objective meaning remained the same. And yet it changed everything. And it changed nothing. A day didn’t go by that they didn’t overhear an elvhen servant being talked down to by some pompous shem; Lavellan would always curse under their breath, “Fen’Harel ma halam”; it felt almost like a litany now.

Lavellan was an ally to their people first and foremost, and made that resoundingly clear at every turn much to the exasperation of Josephine, always gently urging for more “tact” and that “some humans felt Lavellan’s continual usage of the word Shem to refer to humans was akin to a slur” as if it was the humans whose culture was near completely destroyed and who lived in constant persecution and oppression, which always made Lavellan roll their eyes. They did not change their words. As a leader, they were loyal to all Elvhen first; after all, someone there had to be, right? It was only fair; or else they as a people would be forgotten by the wayside as always, suffering the most for decisions they usually had no say in. As a result, Lavellan always used their clan name first, before their given, before any other in the ever-accumulating list of introductions, roles, and titles. Being suddenly considered so important and worldly, though, had brought an uncrossable divide between Lavellan and other elves, too; not merely extended the existing ones between Lavellan and Humanity. In the eye of the storm, there was Lavellan, so far from their clan. All around, there were the shems and their idea of their Herald of Andraste and all the expectations that went along with it. There were the other elves (almost all from human cities) who had lived so differently, having assimilated and by in large abandoned the old ways. There was the Inquistion. There was Corypheus and the destruction he had wrought. There were the Templars and the Chantry. The Mages and their rebellion and their broken circle... and then there was the Mark. Sometimes Lavellan dreamt of dying at the conclave and upon awakening, found bitter hot tears rolling down his cheeks as if he had been weeping. Most everyone now seemed to see Lavellan and their mark as one in the same. Truth be told, Lavellan felt tethered to it, and just dragged inexorably along behind it. And it pulsed with such an unspeakable foreboding; having this kind of power was no comfort at all. It was lonely above all else, painful second. And with so many hopes riding on her, it was difficult to throw caution to the wind and feign the confidence that everything would turn out okay, which was apparently what they were supposed to do. They were still reeling from how fast their life had changed, how needlessly complicated everything seemed now. He scarcely had the words to describe it, and the words they did have made no sense. They hadn’t felt this persistently misunderstood since they were a teenager; only now it was for keeps and included the fates of every living soul in all of Thedas. The weight of the world crushed them.

Oddly enough, the person who seemed most truly understanding and empathetic in the most refreshingly pragmatic way was Varric. Lavellan found themselves seeking out the dwarf’s company more often than almost any other; Varric was open, candid, and sensible. Listened without judging or any ulterior motive beyond gleaning ideas for their next book. What Lavellan respected the most was how Varric never told Lavellan what she should do when Lavellan approached him for advice; rather, he helped Lavellan lay out all the options and talk through them each until Lavellan reached their own conclusion. He was a true friend; his attitude reminded Lavellan of his best friend from back home, which may have something to do with their relative comfort speaking with Varric as opposed to speaking instead with a fellow elf. Varric felt more approachable than the rest of the crew; more honest, somehow. He knew what he knew, and most importantly knew what he didn’t know. He didn’t pretend to understand things and asked a lot of casual, yet respectful questions. He didn’t have intense opinions on concerns he didn’t know more than plenty about beyond a general “probably don’t be a dick to people if they’ve done nothing to deserve it” and Varric earnestly wanted to learn. Lavellan did try their best to offer friendship in kind, but often felt at a disadvantage, fearing they didn’t have enough experience outside of their clan to be of much use dispensing advice. Fortunately, Varric was always keen to hear more about life with the clan, which Lavellan relished discussing; it made the clan feel closer merely with their stories on her lips. Those talks tended to result in Lavellan feeling as though a great burden had been lifted, even just momentarily, for which they were most grateful.

The Iron Bull was their next closest companion, though he was clear from day one that he would be simultaneously reporting everything to the Ben-Hassrath. Lavellan found him charming in his own rough-and-tumble way--- and moreover enjoyed that with the Iron Bull, there were no questions at all. There was just a tacit understanding and “hey, boss, I wanna show you something.” He didn’t push; didn’t pry. Said he didn’t see the need to-- and was probably right. His company was similarly welcoming. Maybe in another life, Lavellan could easily see himself falling in with a company like Bull’s Chargers. Sometimes Iron Bull would show up unannounced and come to collect them from their quarters at oddly apt hours with a “C’mon, kid, let’s go blow off some steam.” It seemed like Iron Bull often realized what Lavellan needed even before they knew herself, which was as perplexing as it was appreciated.

Third, regrettably, there was Solas. As insufferable as the peculiar mage often was, Lavellan could still mark with absolute certainty the precise moment in time they started to become hopelessly infatuated with the mysterious elven apostate. It had been during some of their earliest interactions in Haven. “You train your will to control magic and withstand possession. Your indomitable focus is an enjoyable side-benefit… You have chosen a path whose steps you do not dislike because it leads to a destination you enjoy. As have I.” Solas explained why he chose to stay with the Inquisition despite no real obligation to it, and how experiencing more of life allowed further exploration of the Fade, which made it worthwhile to him in and of itself.

“Indomitable focus?” Lavellan questioned the flattery in a coy manner.

“Presumably.” Solas responded in kind and with purpose, “I have yet to see it dominated. I imagine that he sight would be… fascinating.” And Lavellan felt the ground open up under them and swallow her whole as their internal mantra began a cacophony of “Oh no” as his pupils widened almost imperceptibly in arousal, his ears blushing red – because the last thing they needed right now in all this chaos was a fucking embarrassing crush—they remembered this with startling clarity almost every time she saw Solas. He felt small and weak and clumsy beneath Solas’s sharp, appraising gaze. An absurd and unfamiliar shyness and dim-wittedness would often claim Lavellan’s senses, who did so pride themselves on their snark and knack for witty banter, lifting only when Solas said something else absolutely ridiculous and insulting about the Dalish… which both fortunately and unfortunately was quite frequently. There were times when Lavellan very nearly smacked the disdain right off of Solas’s pretty face; they were never entirely sure what stayed their hand. Perhaps to prove to Solas how wrong he was. Proving the pretentious know-it-all wrong felt somehow worth the wait. Also… the idea of a potential out and out brawl with Solas left Lavellan feeling particularly week in the knees – it was difficult to win a fight when deep down at your core you wanted to lose; she wanted to win his respect and then they wanted Solas to make him suffer in ecstatic agony until every ounce of chaos within him was quelled and brought to heel. Their pulse would thrum in a whirlwind of emotion (containing a majority of rage) and they would tremble with the intensity of their efforts, but they did manage to control themselves, if only barely. And so they did nothing.

“I should tell you,” Solas drew Lavellan out of her reverie, his voice as even and measured as his stride and as the rest of his countenance, “what you’ve done is worthy of much pride. The humans have not raised one of our people so high for ages beyond counting... Their faith in you is hard-won, Lethallan.” Lavellan felt a small thrill of joy at the praise despite Solas’s sombre expression. It was replaced with a cold confusion when he added, “save one detail.” And then after pausing to emphasize the gravity of his words, “The threat Corypheus wields, the Orb he carried, it is ours. Corypheus used the Orb to open the Breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the conclave. We must find out how he survived. And we must prepare for their reaction, when they learn the orb is one of our people."

“The orb is elvhen?!” Lavellan squeaked in alarm, then making sure his voice was at a much lower, more appropriate volume, “How do you know?”

"Such things were foci,” Solas explained, “said to channel power from our gods. Some were dedicated to specific members of our pantheon. All that remains are references in ruins, and faint visions of memory in the Fade, echoes of a dead empire. But however Corypheus came to it, the orb is elven, and with it, he threatens the heart of human faith."

“Who was this orb dedicated to?” Revan asked, curious, absentmindedly brushing his fingers against his vallaslin, dedicated to June, blooming across his face and drawing down across his lips in a stark and cool white brand against the warm, rich tawny of their skin. Revan found this duality strikingly attractive; one of the parts of their person in which they held no insecurity. And why should they? Their vallaslin was hard won and a gift bestowed by their clan when they came of age. He was a Lavellan first, and Revan second.

“Even if I knew” Solas answered with a peculiar, dark expression unreadable to Revan, “does it really matter?” Lavellan pinched the bridge of their nose and bowed their head in frustration,

“No... No I suppose it makes no difference.” Lavellan murmured, suddenly feeling exhausted and like a headache was fast approaching, “Whatever we do, even if we do defeat Corypheus, they’ll find a way to blame elves eventually.” She sighed bitterly.

“I suspect you are correct.” Solas agreed. He added warningly, “It is unfortunate, but we must be seen as above suspicion to be seen as valued allies.”

“’We must be above suspicion’ Ara Mor’Fenedhis!” Lavellan cursed, and Solas snorted with sudden mirth, then answered,

“I merely speak the truth, Lethallan.” Before she had a chance to respond however, their ears perked up to a familiar sounding tune floating towards them from camp.

“Hold on, is that--?” She began in puzzled elation, turning and rushing towards the center of camp where the group was gathered in song. Solas, alone, made a small pained expression before slowly turning to follow.


	2. Skyhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter involves reaching Skyhold and a few vignettes of a drunken party after Lavellan is named as the Inquisitor. It's such a wild drunken party that this is practically a crack chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if I don't write all of this in one sitting it isn't going to ever be finished. So I'm doing what I can. That means this is going to be likely rough, rushed, and perhaps a bit disjointed. There might be errors. Please forgive me. I'm posting each chapter as I bang it out.

When Lavellan reached camp, it slowly dawned on them that the song sounded all wrong. The tune was familiar, but the words were not. And an uncomfortable knot twisted in Lavellan’s stomach as the crowd turned towards him in supplication and exaltation in equal measure. She was always uneasy about being treated as some Shemlen Holy Figure, but more than that this time, they felt as though something precious had been snatched away from them. They stood there, dumbstruck, as the humans acted as humans do in their chorus, and Lavellan fought the urge to bolt. She looked around wildly for an escape or an anchor on which to tether himself, lest they be overwhelmed. They spotted Solas just outside the crowd, partially concealed in the shadow of the tents. His arms were folded in front of him, expression stoic, but unreadable. When Lavellan positioned to mirror him, a ghost of a smile flickered upon his face, and Lavellan was able to focus on copying that stance and through this was able to wait for the end of the song looking relatively composed without breaking down about how the humans take everything from the elves, even their music, and twist it to their own purposes. With how ignorant Lavellan has learned most humans are, they are fairly sure that the humans don’t know the true origins of their Chantry song. They don’t know the tune was stolen and the words were changed. But if they’d ever lingered in clan Lavellan’s camp (not that they’d be permitted), they might have heard a familiar tune sung around a pyre, a dirge and a celebration all at once. The human’s words blanched in comparison to the original. While most of the Inquisiton went to bed that night with hope soaring in their hearts, all Revan felt was a generations-deep weariness and despair, dreading what the future might bring.

As it happened, the future led them to a great fortress hidden high in the Frostback mountains, Granted, it had been abandoned some number of years before and was in desperate need of some repair, but it was more than servicable. How Solas knew of it, Revan had no idea, but they weren’t about to look a gift halla in the mouth. They called it Skyhold, a rough translation of its original Ancient Elvhen name, Tarasyl'an Te'las. And the ancient Elvhen magic that seeped into the stones from its foundations lent the fortress and its residents a protection, palpable even to those with no connection to magic, to where everyone’s spirits lightened in its sanctuary. It was here that Lavellan was awarded a new title as official leader of the Inquisition, a step beyond the already overwhelming role as Herald of Andraste.

“I stand for Thedas as an elf and as a mage. The Inquisition stands for us all.” They managed a fairly eloquent speech even though he felt utterly ambushed by the whole ordeal. They were proud of and yet surprised by the roar of support they received as they took up the ceremonial sword. This was their coronation and the real work was only beginning. Of course, like any proper coronation, Lavellan learned that it was to be followed by a night of wild drunken revelry. Her surprise thusly waned.

“They weren’t really cheering for me, were they?” She asked the Iron Bull over their large tankards of ale and mead as they and the chargers sat together on the ruined stonework just outside the fortress’s great hall while the party was in full swing around them.

“Can’t blame people for liking to get really fucked up, boss” The Iron Bull clapped the Inquisitor on the shoulder, perhaps a little more roughly than he had intended; their ale sloshed out, soaking their trousers. “Shit, sorry; I’m kinda fucked up, too.” The Iron Bull laughed and the sound was so infectious neither Revan nor the Chargers could resist in joining in.

“To being fucked up!” Krem called for a toast, which was met with enthusiasm and more spilled drink. This was a good night, Revan told himself. They were warm and pleasantly drunk, full of sumptuous foods. The music was cheerful and the revelry showed no signs of slowing any time soon. They would sleep in a comfortable bed tonight. It wasn’t so bad, this whole Inquisitor thing. She tried to commit this feeling to memory such that they could draw it up any time he needed to when he felt particularly unlucky for winding up in this role.

The rest of the night passed in a little bit of a blur. At one point, Lavellan saw Varric looking after Cole near the infirmary tents. Varric was rubbing soothing circles on the boy’s back and holding Cole’s hat for him as he retched into the bushes. Cole, who despite not having had a drop of alcohol due to being a spirit seemed (alarmingly) about as drunk as everyone combined, and despite not eating food managed to produce large quantities of vomit of mysterious origin. Almost shockingly, no one else in Skyhold got sick from overindulgence in food or drink the whole night (and woke easy and refreshed the next morning, though Cole was not to be found for many days following).

Lavellan also found themselves involved with singing along with Dorian in a joyously drunken and unabashedly gay ballad in the courtyard while Vivienne looked on, catlike and judging, secretly probably very pleased. Lavellan cursed her out in Elvhen. Then, he remembers his balance starting to go as he continued to feel better and drink more, planning somewhere along the line to stop once he began to feel ill; yet this never happened. He remembers Cullen reaching out and bracing him so that he didn’t tumble headfirst over the ramparts— though they didn’t quite recall how they got there. She remembers her ears burning blushing whenever she noticed the sensation of eyes fixed on her, and many times he would turn to see Solas staring in his direction. They would feel her stomach do a somersault and then they would have another drink to steel their nerves. At some point, he vaguely remembers in what would become their own small tavern, the Iron Bull kneeling on the floor, shirtless, in a beautiful floral tablecloth as a skirt wrapped around him. A bullseye had been roughly painted onto his back and Sera and some of the Chargers were playing darts, or trying to, except the Iron Bull kept having to be reminded with a loud “Oi, Chief!” that he was supposed to be sitting still, “We’re too damn drunk to be throwing at a moving target!” They were surrounded by a thick cloud of rowdy spectators.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” he remembers hearing Cassandra ask out loud to no one in particular as inside they burned with spicy, but sweet envy.

“That’s kind of the whole point, Pentaghast” the Iron Bull grunted a reply as a dart was pulled roughly from his shoulder, rivulets of blood snaking down his enormous torso. He was grinning ear to ear, feeling more at ease than he had in weeks. 

Lavellan remembers Josephine’s expression becoming increasingly scandalized as the night wore on, until it seemed that all at once she forgot her propriety, laughing and whooping along with the others. If memory serves, she joined Sera’s team in the Iron Bull dart game and they won first place. Because nobody had even considered prizes and yet a prize suddenly seemed like a wonderful idea, someone in the room shouted that they should kiss, and cheers roared all around when Sera planted a firm, sloppy kiss on Josephine’s lips, who astonished sunk back into a chair—before returning in kind with perhaps more gusto than anyone had anticipated. The noise in the room doubled, which happened to be a little too much noise and shouting for Lavellan’s comfort levels. She excused herself out of the room, to the immediate notice of absolutely no one, and staggered out into the cool night air, watching the horizon glow pink with the impending sunrise. And so Lavellan wandered, mind blissfully empty. She wandered amongst passed out party-goers, people winding down, quietly smoking and chatting, huddled in small groups. They passed by the stables where Blackwall, apparently stone cold sober, was sitting and contemplatively whittling by the ambient torchlight.

Suddenly, Sara walked by, lipstick delightfully smudged all around her mouth, supporting a half asleep Josephine as the mischievous elf helped the exhausted ambassador to her quarters. “THAT LOOKS LIKE A DILDO” Sara shouted so loudly that Josephine woke with a start and the pair almost collapsed in a heap in the mud. Blackwall couldn’t help but laugh quietly, in the reserved way one does when they’re the only sober one in an entire fucking castle, and shook his head in playful reproach.

Dorian, being carried bridal style by a lumbering, still very bloody Iron Bull, caught sight of the Inquisitor who found themselves wandering now back towards the keep, and the pair wished them goodnight, still singing praises of the party even as they turned a corner and were out of earshot. She felt a dull twinge of loneliness before they felt a hand on his shoulder.

“It seems the reception was a resounding success.” Solas said quietly, lips and words and breath so close to Lavellan’s ear that it made them shiver with desire. “I do, however, think it is high time you retired to bed, Inquisitor. Shall I escort you?” Too blindsided by the offer to accompany him to argue with the idea of someone else trying to dictate his bedtime, Lavellan nodded weakly and the two amicably made their way side by side towards all those stairs leading up to Lavellan’s quarters. If Lavellan had to lean on Solas for support, they didn’t mention it. If Lavellan cursed the number of stairs more than once, they didn’t mention that either. Once Lavellan was in bed, feeling as though it were spinning wildly towards a great chasm, Solas bade farewell softly. “Pleasant dreams, Lethallin... Dareth shiral” as he turned to leave the room. Then the chasm swallowed them up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly? I could have sworn I read in a wiki or even from the game proper that The Dawn Will Come is from an ancient elvhen melody and had been appropriated, but then when I searched for more information I found nothing at all. I'm not sure where that idea came from if it wasn't straight canon.


	3. In Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where things get weird, the semblance of a plot starts to form, things begin to diverge from canon, and things get really explicit and sexual except there's no actual sex involved.  
> CW: Bloodplay? Biting?

When Revan blinked to relative awareness, it was coupled with the sensation of falling. The ground came up fast to meet them from a long ways off, but there was no impact. The statue of the Dread Wolf that always faced out from his camp was here, always lurking at the very far borders of their vision, reflecting there like a kaleidoscope, facing away from him and outward at all angles into the void. It was then that they knew she must be dreaming and that this was the Fade. Then he was standing watching a scene slowly materialize around her. But she knew no fear. The traitorous lupine effigies that always kept watch and frightened away evil spirits saw to that... Just like at the edges of his nomadic home. And she could still see them. Being a mage, Revan was not at all unfamiliar with the Fade. And being the first within their clan, training to one day ascend to the role of Keeper, they already had many lessons here in this place. The statues of Fen’Harel were the result of some of those lessons, bringing some measure of spiritual safety with them wherever they went that settled around them like a ravenous cloak; which was why it was so important to curry the Dread Wolf’s favour, to appease him that he might remain a protector a while longer. There was no loyalty, only opportunity. Lavellan valued the tradition, and others, more for its own sake as a part of their culture over a literal belief in the gods. There were tangible things about keeping these traditions so desperately alive. Beyond the idea of the gods there was a connection to her ancestors, to far off old worlds of legend, to whispered ideas of elvhen glory amidst the daily dogged survival. These traditions were a small beacon of hope to him above all else, and for that reason alone they were important enough, regardless of any other motive or belief.

Lavellan recognized where they were now as Haven, whole and intact, but devoid of all life and silent as the grave. A harsh cold wind blew open a nearby door, which flew off its hinges, spiraling lost into the aether. There was a far off rumbling from inside the opening which showed nothing itself beyond another endless stretch of the Fade. The sound grew louder and was like thunder, or maybe more like the growling of an enormous beast. On instinct, Lavellan reached for their staff, but found themselves to be tragically unarmed. However, they were still a mage and in their element, pure magic swirling chaotic all around him. He began to draw and weave some of that energy around himself, making complex gestures and drawing sparking orange lines of energy out of seemingly thin air, just as he was taught by her Keeper. One must be on the defensive here.

“Hold a moment, Lethallin” a voice came through the door, echoing oddly, sounding first reedy and feeble, carried on the wind. Then, compressed and metallic, with a decidedly salty tang reminiscent of exertion. At last, a figure stepped through the door. It was Solas, or at the very least looked like him. Revan breathed out in surprise, his woven magic shattering around him in so many shards of mirrored glass. Within each fragment he caught glimpses that reflected the back of the effigy of Fen’Harel, and he wasn’t the only one. “Most perplexing…” Solas murmured, likely to himself, looking distantly thoughtful towards the effigy, of which there was simultaneously only one and also infinite. Perhaps Solas’s expression was a bit troubled, but his expressions were always so guarded, Lavellan couldn’t be sure.

“Can I help you, Solas?” Lavellan studied him, trying to gauge whether he was the real Solas or rather Something Else and decided after some consideration that he was real; he must be. The wind finally ceased and the setting left was almost serene. Undisturbed snow and warm glows. Though Lavellan was wearing very little, he wasn’t cold. This was the Fade, after all. “Why are we here?”

“Haven is familiar,” Solas answered simply, “It will always be important to you.” With a gesture, the door behind him disappeared, and Solas led Revan silently through the empty paths of Haven and into the chantry, their feet making no impression in the snow. Together, they descended the staircase into the dungeon where she had first awoken after the fateful explosion at the conclave. “Here I sat by you while you slept, studying the anchor.” Solas began telling him of their first meeting, the one Lavellan wasn’t quite present for.

“I’m glad someone was watching over me.” Revan murmured in gratitude. They never came down to these dungeons again after that first day. They were as dismal as dungeons ought to be. And anyway, being underground in any capacity made him uneasy. She always felt buried alive. Entombed.

“You were a mystery.” Solas explained, turning to face her, “You still are.” Solas began to pace thoughtfully, hands clasped behind his back. “I ran every test I could imagine, searched the Fade, yet found nothing… Cassandra suspected duplicity. She threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I didn’t produce results.”

Revan snorted in amusement, feeling a bit more at ease “Yeah… that sounds like her.” Solas chuckled and agreed, a moment of levity within a conversation that otherwise felt oddly serious, filled with some as of yet nameless intent.

“I was so certain you were never going to wake up; how could you? A mortal sent physically through the Fade? I was frustrated, frightened. The spirits I might have consulted had been driven away by the breach…” Solas trailed off into momentary silence, steepling his fingers together and pressing them against his lips, then he continued to pace and ramble, creating a winding path through the straw that was littered on the dungeon floor. “I wanted to help, but I had no faith in Cassandra… or she in me.” He paused again, as if weighing his words, “I was ready to flee; I planned to”, he admitted.

“Where could you possibly have fled to?” Revan inquired, “the breach threatened the whole world.”

“I considered fleeing far away so that I might study the breach and put a stop to it before its effects reached me.” Solas said, “I never said it was a good plan.” He added, with enough sense to look abashed at the admission before he continued, “I told myself, one more attempt to seal the rifts.” He said, reaching out a hand into the distance as if towards an imagined rift, looking almost wistful, “I tried and failed. No ordinary magic could affect them. I had all but given up, resigned myself to flee as I watched the rifts expand and grow – and then,” Where Solas had been casually exploring and observing their surroundings before, Solas now turned to direct his full attention on Lavellan, who tried their best not to squirm under his penetrating gaze. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation; you sealed it with a gesture.” He exhaled in quiet awe, “and right then, I felt the whole world change.” He stared right at her, and through her as he drew closer with such intensity that the energy radiating from him that it shuddered Revan to his core, and he felt his skin break out in gooseflesh. Being the focus of Solas’s undivided attention was dizzying, and a little intimidating.

Feeling slightly light-headed, Lavellan repeated what he’d heard just to make sure he’d gotten it right, “You… felt the whole world change?”

Solas smiled warmly, “A figure of expression.” He supplied.

“I know what it fucking means, I’m not an idiot” Lavellan snapped before he could stop himself, startling Solas, startling himself even, before they looked deeply apologetic, “I’m sorry. I know you were only trying to help” He said in a rush of words, strained, afraid that she just ruined everything, ruined this whole moment. It already felt so tenuous and fragile.

Solas considered them for a moment, their supplication assuaging any anger he may have otherwise had; Solas felt so much calmer and in control here in the Fade. “I think I too should apologize, Lethallin” Solas said, his smile looking a little sad this time, but no less warm, “I continually underestimate you and you continue to surprise me at every turn.”

“Pleasantly surprised, though, I hope? Yes? Mostly?” Lavellan chirped hopefully, any possible transgressions forgotten in the whirlwind of excitement. Lavellan always forgave far too quickly, anyhow.

Solas chuckled again, a music Lavellan swore they would never grow tired of hearing, “Always, Lethallin.”

There were another few moments of companionable silence, before Lavellan piped up, since it seemed a time for sharing truths they might not have the conviction to speak outside of the Fade.

“I sort of had a bit of a revelation of my own... about you... sort of.” He said, voice faltering partway through the sentence and ending at almost a whisper. She saw a brief flicker of alarm across Solas’s face before he quelled it to a soothing expression of friendly neutrality.

“Let’s hear it, then” Solas said, still sounding slightly tense despite his best efforts.

“It was right after we first met” she began, struggling to find the words, “we, I…” She sighed in frustration at their own incompetence. “You told me I had indomitable focus” they said with no small manner of difficulty. “And then…” He fell silent, embarrassed, blushing furiously and directing his gaze downward to the cold, damp floor of the dungeon and kicked absentmindedly at a small pile of straw that had grown around Solas’s tracked path; the pile toppled and straw spilled across the path, obscuring it.

“Ah, I think I recall.” Solas supplied gently, drawing ever closer, “I told you what a fascinating sight it would be to see your remarkable focus dominated.” He had drawn well within her orbit now, and Revan nodded helplessly, still blushing, refusing to meet his eyes. Solas knew Revan was almost never at a loss for words, and observing that level of adorable shyness and knowing that Solas himself was the cause he found intoxicating in every aspect of his senses. Solas’s voice was soft and clear when he spoke, unmistakable. He said the word “dominated” with such thinly veiled promise and dark velvet that Revan felt their heart skip a beat and their breath catch in their throat. Solas watched the smaller elf for a few moments, committing this scene, this scent to memory to bask in and revisit in future dreams.

Solas spoke with an air of magnanimous understanding and wonder as he circled Lavellan, watching them tremble, still refusing to meet his gaze, “I see… So, you, too, like to envision yourself on your knees before me? Fascinating.” And he was fascinated. And Solas surrounded Lavellan, who finally met his eyes when the words registered and she looked up at him in shock.

Lavellan, thusly transfixed by Solas’s words and his predatory, dangerous stare, stammered “What do you mean by “you, too”?” Excitement thrumming deep and relentless to the core of her, a feeling that was much more amplified in the Fade. Exponentially amplified. And he was already cursed with surging strong traitorous emotions… He had to bite back a whimper.

Solas smirked wolfishly, “I would have thought my meaning was clear, Lethallin… but I will speak plainly.” His low, kind voice now adopted a tone of unbreakable, unquestionable authority, “On your knees.” He ordered, nodding to the place before him where Revan should take up said position. Solas had never actually been anything approaching the meek apostate he sometimes tried to present himself as; Revan knew this. But at the same time, they did not expect to encounter such devastating raw power. Not that Lavellan didn’t think Solas was capable. It’s just that… in all iterations of this fantasy that had played out in Lavellan’s head, this alpha-prime countenance that Solas now wore? Lavellan had scarcely imagined it seeming so natural to him, suiting him so perfectly, like a second (much better fitting tbh) skin. Like she was seeing the real him for the first time. It made her mind reel with possibilities. She scrambled to obey, and found a profound joy in the act.

His eyes were dark and hooded with unfathomable need as Solas stared down at his prey, and their heart was hammering and roaring, rushing loud in their ears. Every single nerve felt alight, alive, reaching out, desperate. Revan remained on his knees at attention indefinitely, maybe only a fraction of an instant, maybe several eternities. Time stretched on meaningless. And still excitement thrummed through him as strong as ever, driving out all semblance of coherent thought. Oh, it was bliss not to think. To have all worries and world-weariness evaporated as if it were never there. There was only one directive, and it was to obey, and it was such sweet relief that if Revan had retained the capacity to think, he would have noticed tears of joy running down his face as he shivered, overwhelmed, though careful to maintain position. Obedient. Eager to please.

A beautiful terror took hold of him as Solas gripped a fistful of Revan’s hair and gently, but inexorably tilted Revan’s head back to bear their throat. Solas watched their pulse thrumming so hungrily, tempting himself, drawing it out as long and as far as he could stand it. Revan felt the searing wanton breath against his pulse-point and he writhed against it in desperate anticipation. Finally, Solas sunk his feral teeth in, claiming, marking, devouring. Blood spurted into his mouth and across his face in fast, strong pulses. Revan, still on his knees, was starting to sag towards the floor; every inch of him was being mercilessly wrung out through the wound until he was delirious, begging, but he didn’t know for what. And Lavellan begged so sweetly, as sweet as this feeling of dying, of a monumental release that far surpassed the mere physical, that Solas knew he would grant her anything she wished, anything at all… until amidst Revan’s almost unintelligible prayers, they called him “Master”.

Jarringly and without warning Solas, horrified, stopped and drew back. He first carefully assessed Lavellan’s condition as she swayed, still struggling to maintain their position here, on their knees as instructed. They still bleed in crimson pulses, though now slowing. Outside the Fade this level of exsanguination might even have been lethal, certainly inadvisable.

“I am so sorry, vhen’an. I forget myself; this was a horrible idea; I should have never done this to you” Solas whispered mournfully. Devastated, he waved his hand to restore vigor and awareness to the vulnerable Lavellan. Solas apologized over and over, a deep sorrow washing over him and pulling him under its current of obligation and shame. This extreme shift in tone brought Revan crashing down from where they had been floating quite contentedly amongst peaks of ecstasy. Their mouth felt full of cotton when they spoke, baffled, alarmed, asked him why, asked him what they did wrong, all elation suddenly reversed to equal and opposite despair like being suddenly doused in freezing water.

And as it reversed, and Lavellan’s unfettered uncontrollable chaotic duality swirled around them, all of them and everything around them warped, turned upside down, then inside out. The Fade was a place of nightmares just as much as dreams. Same things, different connotations. And now at the center of the eye of the storm, at the origin of awareness, was the effigy of the Dread Wolf, standing infinite and alone. And now Solas could see its face, the image of his wolf face mirrored back. The effigy’s eyes opened, two by two, they glowed blindingly red and when they all were at last open, it was with an armageddon sound that it tore the dream asunder. Solas was expelled from the Fade and Revan awoke, tangled up in strangling heavy blankets, stifling a scream in a pillow as they clutched their neck where a shallow tarry bite oozed black, blistering around the teeth marks in the unmistakable pattern of the bite of a canine.


	4. Friends around the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Solas and Revan have been avoiding each other since they met in the Fade, Revan decides to get a little more space and goes with Varric, Iron Bull, and Dorian to the hinterlands. They sit around the fire and BS and talk as friends do. Revan vents a little about what happened with Solas. The dialogue used is perhaps a bit overly modern, but it flowed better and I liked it. This chapter is like 80% dialogue. Nothing much happens.

Revan and Solas did not speak that day, or even the next. They passed wordlessly by each other as if the other were invisible. If he at all noticed Lavellan’s brand new fashion choice of wearing a scarf wherever she went, he didn’t say anything. Solas never ventured close enough to smell the warm spice of the ginger and saffron essential oil blend Lavellan started to wear to cover up the persistent smell of ozone that lingered around the angry wound, but said perfume was heartily complemented by most everyone else, much to Revan’s delight. The following day Lavellan left with Dorian, the Iron Bull, and Varric to check up on the Hinterlands, and to hunt down rumours of Venatori activity as well as those of red lyrium spotted propagating its malign disease in seldom traveled delves, reaching out to consume and desroy surrounding life. Neither force could be allowed to take root or flourish.

The days long travel to the Hinterlands amongst some of his closest friends was a welcome relief for Revan’s nomad spirit. Resting his head in one place for too long became uncomfortable, strong enough a discomfort to pierce through Skyhold’s placid aura of security and infect him with an incurable restlessness… And he wanted to put some distance between herself and Solas, if only for a short time while she sorted herself out.

Revan had hoped the reasons surrounding what happened with Solas in the Fade would become clear in time. Instead, it just became more confusing. Even though they were fairly certain Solas wouldn’t want their private affairs discussed, Lavellan needed the external validation. And so she turned to the Iron Bull, Varric, and Dorian to share stories, woes, triumphs, and advice. To his credit, he tried to give as few sordid details as possible, but Iron Bull had a way of bring them to light, anyhow. Maybe it was for the best; Revan detested the idea of carrying shame about themself, and secrets always beget shame.

…

“So... you had steamy Fade sex?” Dorian asked with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows as they sat together at their camp, all of them drinking, mildly intoxicated. They had all been gathered around the fire talking for some time now. Revan had already given a brief run-down of what happened when he met Solas in the Fade.

“No, not exactly—“ Revan tried to explain, nevermind that they weren’t really keen on sex as an activity to begin with.

“I’ve got no clue how that Fade crap even works, but are you sure that was really him and not a demon pretending to be him or something?” Varric asked.

“Well, I felt sure at the time… I thought I was sure. Now I don’t know anymore. But he’s been acting so weird! He won’t even look at me, let alone talk to me!” Revan exclaimed

“In his defense,” Dorian said carefully “He hasn’t been the only one involved here who’s been acting weird.”

“Honestly,” Revan slightly redirected the topic “in hindsight, it was REALLY embarrassing. I could say it was because of how intense things are in the Fade, but I think it’s mostly because I was just so desperate.”

“When you say you were desperate…? Can you elaborate? You didn’t TELL him you were desperate, did you?” Dorian asked that last part with a gasp. Revan hadn’t been so sure about Dorian at first, since he was human, but his unbridled enthusiasm for romantic misadventures made him quite a fantastic travelling companion. They had a great many stories to swap, and were always incredibly entertaining.

“Fenedhis, no!” Revan laughed. “It was almost as bad though. Literally all that happened is that he had me kneel for him and he bit me and as the allosexuals put it, I practically came in my pants. And that’s when things got really weird and then I woke up.”

The Iron Bull roared with laughter, “Shit, Boss, you need to work on your endurance.” He said, once he got his voice under control. “Real talk, though, I can help you with that, if you like. It can be completely platonic, it can be however you want it. I’m flexible.”

Revan considered this tempting offer, “Hmm… maybe.”

Dorian, with a playfully serious expression and tone, advised “You don’t want to miss out on an offer like that, Revan; Trust me. Iron Bull REALLY knows what he’s doing, right, Amatus?” Dorian gives the Iron Bull a knowing nudge, beaming up at him.

“Thanks, Kadan.” The Iron Bull grinned back at Dorian before turning his attention back to the Inquisitor, “Anyway, offer’s on the table, just let me know if you ever decide to take me up on it.” Lavellan nodded appreciatively. That sounded like a brilliant idea, and it wasn’t just the drink talking.

“So why do I feel like there is more to this story?” Dorian then accused, clearly wanting to hear every single detail. Being the only other mage amongst the group, he already possessed a keen understanding of the Fade. Nothing was ever simple there. And so neither was this.

“I don’t even know. I couldn’t properly explain it if I tried. First we talked, he told me about how he almost ditched the Inquisition, but then decided not to at the last possible instant. I figured since we were making personal admissions that I’d tell him about when I realized I was attracted to him. And I still remember that conversation word-for-word by the way”

“See, when you say you remember something word-for-word the rules are that you have to recite it.” Dorian insisted playfully.

“Yeah, them’s the rules, Boss.” Iron Bull grunted agreement.

“You don’t have to say anything you’re uncomfortable with” Varric encouraged him, “but I will admit I’m incredibly curious and, full disclosure, also will probably write this all down to include in my next romance serial depending on how devastating it is.”

Revan rolled their eyes, sighed dramatically, said “Alright, fine” in acquiescence, and recited the short conversation from memory.

“Fuck me, that is pretty hot” Dorian said after they finished, sounding almost stunned for a moment.

“Who woulda thought Chuckles had it in him?” Varric joked, talking to himself as he hastily scribbled the relevant words down on parchment “I-N-D-O-M-I-T-A-B-L-E Focus. That’s great.” Then to the group, “Trust me, I’m a dwarf; I know pure gold when I see it.” The group laughed.

But Dorian had more questions still, “So that bite, you said you still had it when you woke up?” he asked, now starting to sound a little worried.

“I take it that bringing back souvenirs is not normally something that happens in the Fade…?” Varric asked

“No. It isn’t.” Dorian confirmed, grimly. 

“Yeah. It hurts and it smells weird and it is oozing weird Fade goop and it hasn’t even started healing.” Lavellan muttered, briefly screwing up her face in an expression of mixed irritation and disgust. After a slight pause, “Would you mind taking a look at it, Dorian? I can’t really see it too well since, y’know” He nodded. Revan carefully unwound their scarf and peeled back the bandage covering the bite mark.

Varric hissed an impressed noise through his teeth at the sight of it.

Dorian leaned closer, examining and prodding as gently as he was able, wrinkling his nose at the pungent, foreign smell the wound continued to emit. He chewed his lip thoughtfully.

“I might maybe have a salve in my pack that might help… maybe.” Dorian stroked his chin as he mused.

“That’s an awful lot of mights and maybes, there.” Varric observed.

“I don’t know what to tell you; the Fade works in mysterious ways” Dorian insisted.

Revan added, “Ain’t that the truth!”

“Look, kid, I know my bite patterns when I see them— that’s not the bite of a human—or an elf you got there.” The Iron Bull noted quietly.

“Looks kinda like you got bit by a dog.” Varric agreed, leaning closer to examine the bite mark in the firelight.

“Or a wolf” Iron Bull added, and a rush of mysterious foreboding momentarily swept through them. He hummed to himself, pensive, adding “Shit, it’s always the quiet ones, am I right?” There was a general chorus of good-natured agreement that followed.

The sun was now sinking well below the horizon, bathing the Hinterlands in its warm glow, streaked with purple, pink, and orange. Dorian fetched the salve from his tent and helped apply it along with a new bandage to the Inquisitor’s neck, which smoked in such a way that they couldn’t tell whether it was helpful or harmful. A short while later, everyone retired to their tents for the night in relatively high spirits.


End file.
